I don't have friends
by RossyBowties
Summary: WARNING: SPOILERS FOR 2X02 "I don't have friends...i've just got one." A fluffly Sherlock/John fanfiction, touches on areas of The Hounds of Baskerville which weren't included in the episode.


"I don't have friends…I've just got one."

The words echoed inside John's head. He was Sherlock's friend. _He was Sherlock's friend. _A man who had admitted he cared for no-one, a man who was so sure he had no heart, considered John Watson to be a friend. If any other man had told John that he was his friend, John would have nodded kindly and shrugged it off with a "You too, mate." But, Sherlock? That was different.

Sherlock didn't admit to having emotions. He disliked the words 'love' and 'care' and if anyone asked him how to find their way into his heart, he would reply with a long description of how to perform heart surgery with gruelling descriptions of the different arteries and veins they would have to be careful of.

"…_I've just got one."_

Not only was John Sherlock's friend, but his _only_ friend. John felt a jolt of electricity rumble through his body and dissipate along his spine. He held back a cry of joy and stared at the taller man, absorbing the mysterious, pale blue glow from his eyes. Nothing existed but their irises locked in position. Swirling patterns of grey-blue directly opposite each other. John needed to do something, to say something. A thank you. A reply. Anything. He felt his hands clench and his throat dry up.

"S-Sher-" Words failed him and John relied on his actions. His legs seemed to be carrying him without him telling them to. His eyes still locked on Sherlock's. Sudden, swift movements towards his friend. Then arms linked through his flat mate's. A beating, pulsing heart beneath his ear and gentle lips pressed against his forehead.

The realisation hit John with a beat against his chest. He was holding the world's only consulting detective, his flat mate, his best friend, _Sherlock Holmes,_ against his body. Surprisingly, it was a lot less awkward than he had ever imagined. As cheesy as it was, they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Sherlock's tall, slim figure encased John in a warm embrace, in which his short, slightly-muscular frame could reflect the heat back to his slender friend.

They stood still for a long while. The only movement was the slight press of Sherlock's pale lips against John's forehead, which caused him to shudder softly. The graveyard was completely deserted, and John decided that just this once, he didn't care about their image. Because, at that moment, surrounded by the dead decaying under the soil, he had never felt so alive.

Sherlock stepped backwards and the heat drained from John so quickly that John began to shiver, and he zipped his coat up a little further, his sigh mixing into the sounds of the wind whistling through the trees. He was just about to break the tension that lay thick in the air like a layer of clotted cream and strawberry jam would sit upon a scone when Sherlock burst into rambles of thought.

John chuckled to himself. Just like Sherlock to desert his emotions as soon as he was finished displaying them. Sherlock bounded ahead of him and John stumbled to keep up, barely allowing a sentence of Sherlock's rambling thoughts to enter his mind as he continued to reminisce the past few minutes of his life.

-x-

John had never understood why everybody expected him and Sherlock to be a couple. Was it the way they presented themselves? Or perhaps it was just the fact that two grown men were living and working together, which in this day and age could only suggest one thing. Partners. John didn't even bother to argue as the owners of the quaint bed and breakfast, who wondered whether 'his' Sherlock was a snorer. No, that didn't bother him. However, when a set of keys to _their_ room, one which they would have to _share_, were pressed firmly into his palm he opened his mouth to protest. Then, of course, he was distracted by Sherlock's shouts and the bedroom issue was quickly forgotten. Until later that night.

"Oh bloody hell, sorry Sherlock, I could only get this room and, Jesus!" John ruffled his hands through his own hair in annoyance. "I didn't realise the bed would be so small." He turned to take a peek into Sherlock's shimmeringly pale eyes through the dimly lit room, but saw no doubt or annoyance in them. The detective proceeded to whip off his silk dressing gown, producing an expensive and obviously Mycroft-bought pair of pajamas, and threw himself onto the bed. John sighed and rolled his eyes, he swore sometimes living with Sherlock was like living with a four year old. The shorter of the two men stared at Sherlock, unmoving, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him from the pillow and shuffled over slightly, patting the space beside him. John could feel a blush pooling over his cheeks as he clumsily clambered in beside Sherlock, trying his best not to look at him. _Damn_, he caught Sherlock's gaze. To his utter embarrasment, Sherlock was smirking at him, his eyes wide and bright. John's face was a rich pink that he could feel simmering upon his cheeks. He pushed himself down under the covers and hid his blushing face underneath them.

"John." He could hear Sherlock's voice muffled from under the covers. John gave a grunt in reply and ignored him, rolling onto his left hand side and flicking the switch on the bedside lamp, flooding the room in darkness. They lay a while in silence, not allowing their bodies to touch whatsoever. Soon, Sherlock could hear the gentle snores of his army doctor and smiled to himself, the rhythm of his breathing lulling the detective to sleep.

Unknown to the two men, who were drifting through dreams and breathing in a similar pattern, they inched towards each other in the night. John's fingers curled subconciously around Sherlock's, Sherlock's body pressed itself up against John, John wove his hand through Sherlock's arms and nuzzled his head into Sherlock's neck.

John awoke first, his eyelids fluttering open and his eyes dancing over his surroundings. It took him a few moments to focus, and to understand just why he was so warm and comfortable, so when the realisation hit him he almost jumped backwards in shock. He was in Sherlock's arms once more. Bodies pressed together from top to bottom, their limbs tangled together. Funnily enough, it was the most comfortable position he had ever been in, and John didn't dare to even flex the muscle of his right arm, in which had lost all feeling. He peered up at Sherlock's sleeping face, and smiled. When Sherlock slept he looked almost, well, _beautiful. _He held a calm expression across his face, one which John wasn't used to. His lips were slightly parted and pale and soft. An urge swept through John._ No, you can't, he's your friend. Nothing more. _The doctor turned his attention to the dark curls which lay on the detective's forehead, trying to control the need to brush them aside and tangle his fingers within the mop of hair above his head. John was almost ready to push Sherlock away from him with anger, this was his _friend. What had brought on all of these feelings so suddenly?_

"John?" Sherlock's voice snapped John out of his thoughts and he almost cried out in alarm.

"Y-Yes Sherlock?" John replied, wondering whether it was best to pull away from his friend, however unable to do so due to the presence of a warm, long-fingered hand now placed in the small of his back. He gulped and stared at his taller friend.

"Can you stop thinking, please? It's just too loud this early in the morning." Sherlock mumbled with a twitch of a smile on his lips, his eyes still shut tight. John chuckled slightly and relaxed his muscles, rubbing his soft, fluffy blonde hair against Sherlock's chin. Pushed even closer together, they fell asleep once more, allowing the morning to soak into the afternoon.

-x-

John had failed his driving test each of the four times that he had attempted it. Although he had wonderful hand-eye co-ordination, it was when his feet became involved in the equation that everything became complicated. After colliding with a lampost on his fourth test, he had left the car and slammed the door in his driving teacher's face. He would have to take public transport everywhere instead.

Therefore, on the long journey to and from Dartmoor, John had sat in silence beside Sherlock, allowing him to take the wheel. They were on their way home and John stared out of the window, watching a shade of dark green fade into a shade of lighter green,then brighten into an odd in-the-middle shade of green and this continued for miles. He sighed deeply and threaded his hand through his sandy blonde hair.

They had solved the case. They had helped poor Henry to discover the truth. _So why was he so upset?_ Well, he knew the answer of course. Sherlock had 'experimented' on him, watched him tremble and cry out in fear, all to solve the case. Sherlock had made him coffee, with sugar in, John had taken it as an apology and drank it willingly. Then, Sherlock had locked him in a lab room and had frightened him to the point in which he could no longer breathe. John shuddered as the memory came back. His heart thudding so loudly in his ears that he could no longer even hear his own voice mumbling out in terror. A creature waiting for him in the darkness.

Then a familiar, pale face appeared before him, pulling him out of the darkness. A hand grasping his shoulder. Sherlock. Sherlock meant safety even in the wake of danger. Not safety where John no longer feared for his life, but a safety in which he felt cared for. Someone there for John to fall back on. But it turned out he was wrong. Did Sherlock really care for him? The two of them hugging, and then finding themselves in each other's arms after a blissful sleep, was that just a plot to make John trust Sherlock? _Maybe, he really didn't care at all._

"John, please stop thinking. It's making me lose concentration." Sherlock said softly from the driver's seat beside him. John's head snapped around to glare at Sherlock, who didn't even flinch.

"You were clenching your fists and the lines on your forehead were a little deeper than usual, showing that you were definitely deep in thought. Your eyes trying to avoid me but darting back every moment or so, so thinking about me then. Your-"

"Alright, Sherlock!" John yelled, covering his face with his hands and groaning loudly. "Stop deducing me. You're going to get us killed."

"I could drive with my eyes closed." Sherlock shrugged, his face expressionless. Of course he could. Actually, he had. Sherlock had taken three tests to pass, the first woman almost hurtling herself out of the car because Sherlock had decided to actually shut his eyes tight and drive around the streets of London. He had driven perfectly, but the driving instructor had insisted it was against the rules and had failed him instantly. Of course, Sherlock hadn't been pleased at all and had sat alone, smoking a cigarette until there was just a nub left. Those were the days when he didn't have John around to cheer him up a little. To pull him off the sofa and drag him to the local Chinese takeaway.

"Of course you can." John rolled his eyes and huffed once more, before turning to look out of the window again, fields coated in pretty flowers reflecting in his eyes with pinks, yellows and indigos.

A warm, soft hand found its way onto John's and he looked down at it curiously. The pale fingers of his flatmate linked through his and his thumb stroked John's hand momentarily. John didn't dare to breathe and sat still, silently waiting for an explanation. There was none. They continued to sit like that for a few minutes. Then the minutes dragged on into hours and when the car rolled up outside 221b Baker Street, the dark night outside the windows penetrated with gleaming lampposts, Sherlock finally let go of his hand. John let out a deep breath as the engine was turned off.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said, the words escaping his mouth in a barely audible whisper. The air grew quiet once more and all that could be heard was the sounds of the engine cooling down. John turned to his friend in the dark, noticing how his icy blue eyes were dropped slightly in guilt. _Guilt. _That was definitely an emotion which Sherlock had never displayed before.

"You're…wait, you're sorry? You're apologising?" John asked, his eyes wide with surprise, his heartbeat speeding into a rapid beat which he was sure Sherlock could see through his shirt.

"Yes, John, don't look so surprised." Sherlock sounded slightly irritated but his face loosened hastily and he smiled gently at his army doctor. "I should never have done that to you. I shouldn't have put you through that. I never want to hurt you, John. You're the only person I care about, and I want you to trust me. I want to keep you safe."

John couldn't believe the words he was hearing. He breathed in deeply. He breathed out. His eyes stared into Sherlock's and searched for any hint of sarcasm or lies. No. Sherlock was being truthful. The detective's hand found John's again, but this time he lifted it off John's knee and placed it up to his face, brushing his pale lips against the shorter man's fingers. John stared at him still, gulping slightly. John moved his lifted hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, stroking his thumb against his cheekbones. It then snaked its way up into the hair at the back of Sherlock's head, grasping onto the curls.

What John did next he took no second thoughts about. He tugged Sherlock's head down and pressed his lips up onto his flatmate's paler lips. John kissed him carefully, caressing Sherlock's upper lips with both of his, the hand not tangled in his hair placing itself on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock sighed happily at the fresh contact, the slight opening of his mouth allowing John's lips to nip at his hungrily. The detective still hadn't reacted with the kiss, as if waiting patiently for something to happen. _He's still unsure_, John told himself. _He needs to be convinced._

John pulled slightly, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. Sherlock inhaled suddenly at the realisation of how large and lustful John's pupils were. John smiled, his hands still trapping Sherlock in place, his lips placed just beneath Sherlock's.

"I forgive you." John breathed, and the detective reacted to his words with force. He collided his lips into John's and pushed them apart greedily, his tongue flicking against his doctor's lips until they parted with a shuddering moan, allowing his access. Their tongues fought for control, their lips swelling into pairs of ripe strawberries, sweet and juicy and very red. John shifted in the passenger seat and Sherlock pushed himself down onto John until he was almost lying on top of him. John groaned happily as Sherlock's hand found his hip and pressed onto it with slight pressure, rubbing circles into a small patch of exposed skin with his thumb.

They pulled apart, breathing heavily, eyes shiny and bright and filled with new experiences. Sherlock chuckled to himself and John raised an eyebrow, to which Sherlock placed a soft kiss into his friend's fluffy blonde hair.

"I lied."

"You what?" John stared at him, waiting.

"I lied. I don't just have one friend. I don't have any at all." He kissed John's head again, then his jaw, then pressed his lips firmly against another pair of swollen lips. "Because, you John, are so much more than that."


End file.
